Claudine had stolen a wooden spoon from Rob’s house. That was six months ago. They had been having a meeting about an event they were planning involving the local community, because they lived in the same area of the city and the event would, they hoped, bring their community together in a positive celebration of local history and culture, through drama. Rob had left Claudine in the kitchen to fetch some toilet paper because the coffee had spilled over the top of the cafetiere when Rob applied too much pressure to the plunger. The spoon was hand-carved, its bowl was round, the handle was whittled thin, tapering off. It had been used to measure the coffee out. Claudine picked it off the counter absentmindedly, but as soon as she heard Rob returning she felt a small amount of shame about holding it, about just standing there with the spoon, as the coffee spread slowly across the counter. It was as if at the same pace inside her a realisation was spreading. Claudine hid the spoon in the sleeve of her thick, green jumper, the bowl end tucked into her palm, the handle running along her wrist beneath the cuff. Rob, busy mopping the spill, had not noticed that Claudine had taken possession of his spoon. There came to Claudine three thoughts, in quick succession: 1. That she could not continue to hold and hide the spoon in its current location for very long; 2. Therefore she would have to move the spoon as soon as possible; 3. Being discovered trying to steal a spoon was much worse than being discovered holding one. As she watched Rob move the clump back and forth, Claudine wondered if perhaps Rob was as much motivated by a desire for control as he was by a desire to bring the local community together through drama, and maybe, yes, 4. It was worse to falsely advertise a selfless attitude towards your community than to take a carved wooden spoon from someone. She deserved the spoon more than Rob, and like a cyclist settling into the rhythm of a new gear, a plan to steal the spoon advanced in Claudine’s mind. Claudine waited for Rob to dispose of the coffee-brown wad of the toilet paper in the swing bin under the sink. Then she walked back towards the table where her bag was sitting on a chair, and reached down and placed the spoon into the zip pocket of her bag. With a new sense of control Claudine then retrieved a pack of tissues and, smiling, handed them to Rob so he could wipe up the rest of the coffee without having to go all the way back to the bathroom. Rob thanked her and smiled. Claudine smiled. The coffee, when they then sat down to drink it and discuss their plans, was delicious. And it was that taste, followed by the memories of the community drama event which last week had been such a great success, that Claudine thought about, smiling again, as she looked at the painting in front of her.

Jack Underwood is a poet, a teacher at Goldsmiths, University of London, and the Poetry School,a nd co-editor of the anthology series Stop Sharpening Your Knives. His debut collection, Happiness, was published in 2015 by Faber and Faber.